A Dead Song
by The Incredible Nameless Wonder
Summary: 1932, the Great Depression is in full swing around the world. Plenty of people want others dead, and are willing to pay with their souls. Vera Weiss is no different. She wants her life back, she wants her name in lights and enough time to enjoy it, but she's stuck wishing on a cracked mirror. Unknown to her, a spider is listening, and wants to form a contract. AU. Claude/OC.
1. Prologue: Spinning

_**A Dead Song**_

_**Prologue: Spinning**_

The lights were blindingly bright. The stage, a home unlike any other welcomed her as an old friend. She knew her place, off to the side, behind the one who really mattered. Her chest heaved with anticipation as she took a step to the left, following the lead of the music.

Once, some time ago, she knew this dance like a bird knew how to fly. Now her wings were clipped, and moving in a way that used to be second nature felt like she was being strangled. Her dress felt too tight, her pumps far too high. She knew she would fall, and everything would end.

Instead, she held her breath, working harder to recall every detail, every sway that seemed to light the audience on fire with laughter and lust. Her arms moved as well, away from her waist and out to her sides, resting behind her head. She cringed as she felt the pins in her hair slip.

A wardrobe malfunction would have been a formidable excuse to run offstage and hide in her dressing room for the night, but she knew she would be caught. It happened before, the laces of her dress came loose a bit too early, ruining the finale. She didn't get paid that night. So she lifted her head higher, and focused on a man not lucky enough to attract the attention of the lead dancer.

But everything was so _bright_. All of the faces in the crowd, whether they were young, old, drunk or sober, blended into one. The unification was hardly a good thing. It threw her for a loop, breaking her concentration enough that she stepped wrong. The woman turned a bit too sharply, catching the hem of her dress under a spiky heel.

The world seemed to stop as the wood floor of the creaky stage came closer. It was like a frightening dream, the one where you're falling so slowly that you forget to scream. Her breath caught in her throat, she didn't make a sound.

Her eyes closed of their own accord, blocking out the coming embarrassment, the coming humiliation. Everyone would laugh as she crawled back into the shadows. It's not like it truly made a difference. They laughed anyway. No matter what, they always laughed.

She could still hear it when she closed her eyes, the sound of breaking glass and _him_. If the world was in on a joke at her expense, _he _found it the funniest. She remembered a time when she would rather laugh than breathe, and she lived to make others do so. There was a time when she danced because she didn't like the feeling of her feet being on the ground.

Her thoughts shattered like her dressing room mirror as someone grabbed her arm. The audience would still laugh, but maybe not as loud tonight. Whoever had hold of her was growing impatient with hiding her mistake, and in a moment, she was back on her feet.

"Do that again, Vera," A voice in her ear warned as she spun again, her feet feeling just as light as her head, "And there will be stumps where your feet should be." She turned to see unfamiliar eyes glaring at her back. Vera just nodded, putting on a smile and closing her eyes.

The music was closer now, less like an unpleasant memory. It rung in her ears like a church bell, and flapped about like a fish. Vera didn't have to pretend anymore. She could dance to this song six feet under.

She opened her eyes and was met with a handsome face out in the crowd. She flashed him a grin and spun around again, her once heavy dress now settling at her ankles like an embrace. Her head turned with her body, meeting the black gaze of her savior again.

Yes, Vera could dance to this song dead, and if the threat held, she soon would.

* * *

The world was a beautiful place after a couple of drinks, Vera found. Manhattan's were a poor girl's best friend, and after that train wreck of a performance, she was in dire need of some company. It came in the form of a cocktail glass, the liquid held within as red as the fading stage curtains. She didn't care, she swallowed it all in one sip.

The burning sensation ripped down her throat like she had drunk a bucket of nails. She recoiled, gagging slightly and placing the glass on her dressing room table. The bar just outside was a ghost town, and the tender of it could probably use the cash.

She looked back down at the empty glass and then back to her door. Already, a buzzing sensation was filling her ears. It felt wonderful. Sighing, Vera stood up from her table and grabbed her wallet. she pulled out fifty cents. There wouldn't be much left if she went on a drinking binge that night, but she was lonely.

"Tom, a Manhattan. Heavy on the whiskey." She ordered as she slid onto a bar stool. The fabric of her dress was arguably the most uncomfortable texture in history, and Vera grimaced as it rubbed her upper thigh.

"Anything for the Back-Alley Queen." Her fist slammed against the table when he replied. In her hand was the money she brought and it hit the flat surface with a clink. Tom turned his back to Vera, smiling like the slimy bastard she thought he was.

Maybe loneliness was better than being treated like dirt, but Vera was still sober. On a Friday night, that wouldn't do.

"You want my money, you shut up and get me a drink." And just like that, her fifty cents was gone, and in its place was what she ordered. She grabbed the glass and drank its contents like water, welcoming the sparks that danced in front of her eyes with wide arms.

When she'd run out, she motioned for another, and Tom complied.

"Slow down, Vera." He said in a bored tone at around her fourth drink. Tom sounded like he really didn't care whether or not she did. Funny, Vera didn't either.

"You really care?" She asked him anyway and he shook his head. She just shrugged, leaning across the bar and placing her elbows firmly on it.

"Getting drunk on the job is not a good idea." The bartender commented to the intoxicated woman. She just shrugged again.

"Still, I don't think anybody noticed tonight." She replied, gesturing to the crowd of horny men. A striptease was in full swing on stage. Nobody gave a damn that the backup dancer was getting drunk off her ass.

"Nobody in the audience." Tom corrected her. "Watch your back, or you'll be out on it like that." He snapped his fingers, making the woman jump a little bit.

"You always know how to keep me on my toes." She told him, picking up her glass. Vera was out of money, and this would be her last drink for the night.

"Are you gonna stay after closing tonight?" Her shoulders went rigid when he asked. She sighed.

"Yes. The boss pays me extra when I help clean up." She rolled her eyes. "I ain't a damn waitress. I think he just wants to see me bent over a table." Tom chuckled at that.

"Don't flatter yourself, Weiss." He advised. "Nobody cares about you." It seemed like that was the final straw for the dancer. She stood on slightly shaking legs and turned her back on the bartender, stalking towards her dressing room.

She let the door slam behind her, but doubted anybody heard it over the loud, fast drums. The strip was almost over now. All she had to do was wait until everyone went home.

Her reflection in the mirror was frightful. Red lipstick smeared on pale skin, eyeliner caked under her eyes. Vera looked a mess. She set about righting herself, wiping away the remnants of the cheapest makeup money could buy and replacing it with a new coat.

When she was finished, she didn't think she looked any better than when she started. Vera realized that doing her makeup while drunk was not the best idea.

Instead of a disheveled-looking little woman staring back at her, now it was a mask with her face painted on it. But whoever painted it made a mistake. The mask was smiling, and she could barely do that anymore.

The stage lights blinded her again and she put her hands over her eyes, dragging her mascara around until she looked like a raccoon. She felt better.

Her newly-blackened eyes scanned over her mirror, looking to the edges like she was searching for a friend. She found it in a crack along the left side. Her lips softened as she reached a red-painted nail up to scratch at it lightly.

Just two years ago, Vera wouldn't have sat in front of a mirror with even the slightest imperfection. Then again, two years ago she wasn't doing three shows a day in the most run-down club in all of New York.

She sighed, ignoring the burning in her eyes as she touched the little crack, tapping at the glass. Vera watched with a hint of curiosity as the crack got bigger. She felt herself frown as she pushed a little harder, twisting her nail this way and that.

In less that a second, the tiny crack split, and sent a shock wave running through her as the glass shattered. Vera drew her hand away quickly, but not before a shard imbedded itself in her finger.

She hissed in pain and looked away from the crumbling, reflective mess that now showed over a thousand tiny, sad Vera's. It was so much harder to look at them all instead of just one.

Sighing with discomfort, Vera tugged the shard out of her index finger, wiping the blood on her black dress.

She didn't look back at her mirror for the rest of the evening, but eventually she had to. When Vera did, the entire club could hear her crying. Her life was a mirror, and she was a crack just waiting for someone to hurt and make the whole thing come down on her.


	2. Chapter One: Little Favors

_**Chapter One: Little Favors**_

By the year 1932, there was not much left of Vera Weiss.

Anyone who looked would see a beautiful woman, rather on the thin side, who couldn't manage to keep still for more than a few minutes. Her hair was quickly turning brittle and dull from her steady meals of whiskey and little else. She was like everybody else, nothing more than a broken dream.

But she had a job. Not much of an income, but better than sleeping out in an alley somewhere. Still, her nickname thrived when her back was turned. Nobody knew why Vera was called the Back-Alley Queen. Many assumed that she'd been a prostitute for a few years.

Then again, the bartender at the Fletcher wasn't wrong when he said that nobody cared. Tom was the only one who still talked to her, much less cared about her well being. But even that was a stretch. He just gave her drinks at a discount, and didn't seem to give a damn that she wasn't eating.

But it's not like that was special. The only dancer who did was the lead. For the seven other back dancers, alcohol was part of a steady diet. For Vera, dancing was the only reason she got out of bed in the morning.

Dancing used to make her feel like it was all she was meant to do. The sweeping sound of a jazz song was like a call to home. Her first love was laughter, and the Burlesque acts used to be her favorite.

Now, the world laughed at her until it just blended with the screaming. She couldn't tell the two apart anymore. The whole world had gone to hell and she was in the middle.

The morning paper was worse every day, and it was everything in her not to cry on the floor. The stock market crashed, billionaires the world over were putting bullets in their mouths, people were dying in mass amounts. And there Vera was, keeping a smile in her red lips and trying to make them forget it all.

But poverty took its steady toll on her, wore her down until all that remained were a set of hollow, raccoon eyes and a screaming mouth.

She awoke one morning to a beautiful throbbing in her head. Vera could say that a hangover was perhaps the most bittersweet thing in the world. It meant that she had enough money to get pissed drunk the night before, but that she probably wouldn't have any left to do it again that night.

The sun's rays peeked in from her window like yellow fingers hell-bent on blinding her. She threw a pale, thin arm over her eyes and crawled out of bed, making a beeline for her mirror.

Vera didn't know why the old woman who ran the board house kept her wash basin filled, but she couldn't care less if it meant she didn't have to pay extra.

_Let the old bat have her hope. _She thought to herself. _There's nothing left of anybody. Kindness just gives people a way to drag you down. _

The water stung her eyes something fierce when she cupped her hands and splashed it on her face. A curse on her lips, Vera remembered that she had neglected to wash her eyeliner off from the night before.

"Oh damn it." She whispered, rubbing at the black smears. A scrap of cloth was waiting on the stand to dry off with and the dancer swept it under her eyes, trying to get the smudges in the corner.

It was a Saturday, around noon if the sun's position told her anything. Vera didn't have time for this.

"Come on, come on!" She was almost hysterical now, rubbing frantically, scraping the underside of her eyes until they were red. The dancer couldn't stop herself, she couldn't get rid of that horrible, stinging feeling that pricked every part of her body.

_I need a drink._ Was what she thought when her hand finally slammed down on the wood, knocking over the tin bowl of water. She watched as the now murky liquid dripped from the edge and on the white-washed floorboards.

Base instinct took over, and before she could stop herself, Vera had grabbed the bowl and thrown it at the wall. The clanging sound was like an alarm in her head. Her head snapped to where the bowl had made impact, and she swept over to it, kneeling down and picking it up gently.

It landed in the corner, where it seemed that even spiders couldn't afford rent. All that remained were dusty cobwebs. She held the bowl in her hands for a moment, scanning for any signs of life. Finally, she found what she had looked for.

Nestled partly under her bed was a spider's web. It was newly made, beautiful, and much to Vera's surprise, inhabited.

"What are you looking at?" She asked the little creature. It was black with more eyes than she cared to count.

Normally, Vera killed spiders, but if her only friend was whiskey and a crack in her mirror, how much further could she sink?

"Haven't you ever seen a grown woman throw a fit like a little girl?" She asked it, sounding about as forlorn as a lost soul.

Vera looked down at the bowl in her hands, and she turned it over. There was a small dent in the bottom, but it wasn't as if the landlady would notice. The dancer knew, with no small amount of relief, that she was not the only person throwing things.

"Lately, all I seem to do is cry. Cry and drink. Pitiful, isn't it?" She didn't know if spiders could nod, but Vera supposed that if it could, it would be doing so.

She thought about the little old woman just two floors below her, and how happy she always seemed. A smile was on her wrinkled face, and she had rock-hard muffins ready in the morning for anybody up early enough to eat them.

When she was too poor to go out drinking, Vera could never sleep, and even though they tasted like sandpaper and scrap metal, she still had one or two when she was offered them.

"Listen to me, talking to a spider! I really must be going mad." The dancer looked to her window. The rays seemed to hurt her eyes just a bit less. "But what am I saying? The whole damn world's gone mad!"

And with that, She stood up and strut over to her dresser, slamming the bowl right-side up on the surface. Her eyes were stinging again, this time with tears. Vera could see herself coming apart in the mirror, and the little spider could see it too.

"There ain't shit left out there but pain. So much pain." Her shoulders were shaking, her nails dug into her palms. "I heard a gunshot last week. Some crazy man put a gun to his head. He had five children." She stopped to pinch the bridge of her nose.

Her hand fell back to her side. She was finished with trying to hold everything together. Vera just ended up losing even more pieces of her when she did.

"What's happening to me?" She asked the spider, but did not get a reply. She didn't expect one.

Vera ran a hand through her hair and adjusted her dress in the mirror. Nobody could afford night-clothes anymore, and this dress was only one of the two she owned.

"I say, good for the suicide man. Good for him for being brave enough." She turned back to the spider. "I'm not brave enough. I've never been brave enough."

Her feet made soft sounds as she walked back to the small creature.

"But it's alright, little one," She said, kneeling down again. She stretched out her hand towards her new friend. "You don't have to be brave." Vera put her index finger carefully into the web, to her delight, the littler spider crawled into her palm.

The dancer let out a shaky laugh, "You don't have to be brave enough." She took a moment to really look at her little friend. It looked like a blackish dot. So small and insignificant.

Vera closed her hand around the little thing. Squeezing her fist tightly.

"I can be brave for you."

* * *

If the dank atmosphere of the Fletcher was supposed to be an escape to the dirt-poor citizens of New York, Vera didn't understand why they were so similar.

Smoke billowed out of tall stacks that reached up towards the dreary sky like fingers. Cigarette butts littered the sidewalk a long with flea-ridden mutts. The dogs are what scared Vera the most. The feral beasts were half-mad with hunger, and it showed in their bare-bones frames. Most of them had gone vicious, whether it was from abuse from a previous master or just for fun, Vera didn't know, but she avoided them at any cost.

The only thing more frightening than dogs were the people. New York was a big place, and the amount of jobs were shrinking. In their place came an increase in hobos. There could've been at least a million of them, and at least a hundred made their home on the street.

It wasn't like they were so evil, they usually only begged for their cash and rarely did Vera hear about a robbery. Still, they were right awful to look at, she found, and they stared at her like they did everybody else. Their eyes were quite unnerving. She may have fallen far, but those people were rock bottom.

Vera shook her head, quickening her pace and focusing on her steps. Walking in high heels was a challenge, forget dancing. She was certain her feet would be screaming if they had mouths. But they didn't, and instead she screamed for them, but not a soul could hear her.

It took her a moment to realize that she knew most of the men huddled in shop corners. They would rush in to the club at all hours of the night to escape the cold. Her boss never said anything about it, didn't even bug them to buy a drink. As long as they didn't cause any trouble, they were welcome to stay until closing.

When the lights went down and the curtain closed, Vera would emerge from her dressing room and spend the next three hours in housewife hell. She didn't know how a place could get so dirty in just twenty-four hours, but the filth and grime spread like the plague.

It was perhaps the most embarrassing part of her job, but it earned her a few extra pennies come pay day. That was all she cared about.

There were women living on the street too. They looked far worse than her, but Vera doubted they would notice. The homeless men never seemed to stop staring at everybody, the women never even bothered to look.

Once a week, Vera would grip the envelope that held her pay, and she would sigh, promising not to spend it all in the same night. She couldn't let that happen, she couldn't let herself live on the street. The dancer was supposed to have her eyes open all the time, constantly scanning the crowd for a reaction.

Vera didn't think she could bear it if she became like the and stopped looking.


	3. Chapter Two: Messy

_**Chapter Two: Messy  
**_

The walk from the board house to the Fletcher took an eternity. Vera's eyes darted about like a fish in water. She tried her best to hide in plain sight. To be small, unnoticed. Perhaps, all she was doing was making herself more noticeable, but she didn't seem to care.

"Sister told me about a fairy last night." Vera turned her head towards a voice that stuck out from the midday crowd. A boy with dirt on his face sat on a crate. He was surrounded by other children, all just as filthy.

_Why am I listening to this?_ Vera asked herself as her steps veered slightly towards the child. He was speaking quickly, his hands moving at a dramatic speed.

"She said that you just have to make a wish, and it will come to you and grant it." The children that surrounded him oohed and ahhed like people at a circus. Vera shook her head, moving away from the little ones.

"Just make a wish?" A little girl asked. She sounded skeptical, making Vera frown. Yes, perhaps grown-ups did not believe in fairies, but children were _supposed_ to.

_Maybe the old woman is not the only one who deserves to have hope._ The dancer thought.

"Nah, you gotta say the magic words, don't cha?" Another little member of the swarm with sunken eyes asked the boy. He nodded.

"Oh yeah, she even told me 'em." He replied, nodding his head. The little boy seemed to excited, like he was handing out money on a silver platter. "Hoheo Taralna, Rondero Tarel." All of the children snickered, much to his annoyance.

_How ridiculous_. She thought. _A sister shouldn't be that cruel. He's just a child._ Her attention turned to the dismal road ahead, and the long way she had to go.

"It is true!" She heard the boy yell behind her. "I'm gonna wish for a million dollars!" Vera nearly stopped in her tracks.

The dancer lived in a world where children wished for money. They barely understood the value of it and yet they wanted it. Why?

_Because their mummies' and daddies' cry over it at night._ She didn't know why her thoughts were so grim, but she didn't really want to know the answer.

* * *

"You're on in five minutes. Get ready." Vera turned her head to see Heather shut the door behind her. The dancer sighed and set about getting her makeup on. Pale face powder covered up dark circles like they'd never been there, completing her mask as she got dressed.

Vera knew that the entertainment world was changing, but it almost felt like a crime to wear the costume the manager had decided on. The color pink made her almost ill. But she had to be happy. She was supposed to be an illusion, a trick that would make all your problems go away, for a price.

With her laces tied far too tight, Vera exited her dressing room, heading towards the staircase to the stage. Tonight was different, however. She was not drunk and her hangover was fading, but the sense of distraction from a few months ago had returned tenfold.

Her footsteps were shaky and uncertain, her eyes glazed. She never should have left her dressing room. Being sacked was better than whatever else would come that night.

Vera exhaled. She could do this, she was not afraid. An image of the little boy swam in front of her vision as she took her place beside her dancing partner. Her dark-eyed savior was nowhere to be seen.

She wondered if she had imagined the woman who grabbed her arm almost six months ago. The dancer hadn't seen her since, and everyone she asked thought she'd finally gone crazy.

At first, Vera wondered if she had. Nobody knew who that mysterious dancer was, but Tom distinctly remembered Vera's almost blunder. He also said that someone did save her ass, but he didn't see who.

It didn't add up in Vera's mind, much to her distaste. Right after that awful performance, she had hoped it was only Molly playing a trick. Molly was older than her by two years, and you could tell.

Being thirty-one, it came a surprise to everybody when they found out she wasn't married, at least not anymore. Molly had gotten a divorce when she was nineteen. Vera remembered cringing.

The dancer never had the time to settle down, and even if she did, she doubted she would like her husband very much. But to actually get a divorce? The thought was quite strange.

Still, Molly told her that it definitely wasn't her who pulled Vera back from the brink. Someone had changed the order around a bit, like they were playing musical chairs at a birthday party. Apparently, nobody was in their right spot.

Vera hadn't even noticed.

She supposed it would have explained her mounting anxiety that evening, being in an unfamiliar place tended to do that to her, but why did she feel the same way that night as well?

That night's song was faster, with much less time to think about the steps ahead. Vera knew it well, but everything was wrong about it. It sounded out of key, it sounding completely off. To compensate, so was her movements.

She felt like a fish on land, flopping about on the deck of a boat while everyone laughed at her pain. Her arms thrashed about with too much force. The song wasn't light by any means, but she looked murderous.

It was a display just shy of hideous. Her hips swung to sharply, her face was pained instead of pleasant. She was breaking the illusion, she knew. Vera knew and she couldn't stop.

Her hands balled into fists, her dress was too tight. The pins that kept her hair in place her digging into her scalp. And there was a ringing in her ears.

Imagine the worst noise ever made, worse than nails scraping on a chalkboard. Worse than a dying scream. Imagine it, and it was in her ears. She gripped her head with her hands as she twirled alongside her dance partners.

Vera was getting dizzy. Everything she had felt for the last six months was piling up. Like corpses to be buried, like corpses to be burned. She thought about the little boy who believed in fairies for the wrong reason.

She thought of that poor little spider, who was probably braver than she ever could be. In her head, a picture of the man down the street who killed himself formed. It had been in the newspaper the next morning, along with all of his crying children.

Vera couldn't take it anymore. Something was wrong with the world. Something was wrong with her.

Was this some great epiphany? Was this the total of all her life was worth? Crying fits and strange thoughts. Vera didn't know how much longer she could stay on her feet, and it seemed that neither did the other dancers.

They were becoming a bit more frantic around her with every passing second. They looked at her with scared eyes, all while keeping smiles on their faces. They strained to hear the music over the noise of the Back-Alley Queen coming undone.

All at once, it was too much. With a crash, Vera fell, hitting the stage floor hard. She didn't let out a sound. No one did. The music stopped, and everybody just stared.

_Laugh already._ She begged them in her mind. _Laugh, scream, do something! Anything is better than this!_ But of course, nobody heard her. In a flash of pink fabric and red hair, she was gone, running off the stage as fast as her legs could carry her.

She heard the curtain close behind her. She finally heard the angry grumbling from the customers. What she didn't hear was the sound of footsteps approaching. That is, until it was far too late.

Vera fell backwards when she collided with something. The pins that strained to keep her hair in place finally gave way and fell out, leaving behind loose tangles. She looked like hell and she knew it.

As if on command, her eyes filled with tears for the third time that day. She had hoped she'd run into a wall or something, but that would require her to have luck. Instead, she came face to face with the manager of the Fletcher.

She tried to speak, to say anything to defend herself, but she couldn't. Vera didn't have a plan to evade punishment this time. She hadn't expected anything like this to happen. In a moment, the dancer tried to come up with any sort of excuse that wouldn't result in even more ridicule.

"Vera," He began, cutting off her thoughts. "What are you doing?" Her breath hitched, her hands drawing her knees up to her chest.

_Stop it._ She told herself, _You're acting like a child._ Perhaps that why she did not look up when the manager asked her again. Yes, she was acting like a child, a spoiled, selfish child, but could you blame her? Vera wanted to be like that little boy, who truly thought that a fairy would come and bring him money, that a bloody fairy even existed.

Vera wanted to dance and be happy. She wanted things to go back to the way they were before.

Instead, she felt hands grab her shoulders and pull her to her feet. She could barely take a step before falling again. Whoever had helped her up let out a groan of annoyance and gave her a small push forward. Vera nodded, kicking off her shoes and walking.

She exhaled when she took a seat behind the bar. Here was a safe place. It became even safer when a familiar glass filled her hands. She looked across the plank of wood to Tom, who nodded.

"Drink it slow. Vodka ain't like whiskey. It'll relax you." Vera nodded, taking a small sip. Gone was the burning sensation that felt so good in her throat when the clear liquid passed her lips. Instead, she was met by the feeling of her skin being stripped off. She gagged a bit, but the tension in her shoulders subsided.

Taking a deep breath, she finished her drink as Molly appeared behind her. In her hands was the jacket Vera had placed on her chair in her dressing room earlier that evening. She gave the older woman a look of thanks when she placed it on the dancer's shoulders.

Her incredibly tight pumps found their way back on her feet rather quickly, much to Vera's sadness. She promised herself that on her next day off she would only wear flat shoes. When she had calmed down, the manager reappeared, as if from thin air. He didn't look very happy, Vera noted with no small amount of fear.

"Come along then, I want to have a chat." He spoke slowly, like she were five years old.

_You just had a temper tantrum!_ Her mind shouted at her. _You are five years old!_ Vera ignored the voice in her head and nodded, standing up on shaking legs and following after the old man.

He had been in show business for some time, but was never able to rise above the rank of small club owner. The manager was the the lowest of the low for a performer.

"Have a seat." His hand motioned to a chair in front of his desk. Behind him, on the wall hung pictures of other famous entertainers. Vera surveyed them with a bored look before focusing her attention on her most likely seething boss.

"I'm sorry." Was the first thing out of her mouth. To her surprise, the manager just laughed. It sounded like squeaky metal.

"Now, what's that for? I call you in for a little talk and you turn it into a pity-party?" He asked and Vera quickly shook her head.

"No. I-I just-" Her boss cut her off with a glare.

"You're not very good at this, are you?" Vera had no idea what the manager was talking about.

"Not good at what, Sinclair?" She asked him. His glare could've cut steel faster than a flame.

"Not good at talking. If I can't get a damn word out, then what good are you?" Vera resisted the urge to shrug. She'd never had a reason to be afraid of the admittedly nonthreatening Frederick Sinclair, but now it seemed, she did.

He almost looked please when she didn't respond, like he'd gotten a feral pup to do a trick.

_The only question is_, Vera asked herself, _Will I get a treat?_

"Now, isn't this easier?" Vera just remained silent. "Here's what I called you in for. Not to hear you say sorry, not to hear you grovel. What I want is for that to never happen again." He pointed in the direction of the stage. The dancer nodded.

"I prom-" Vera recoiled when his thick hand came down on the desk. Her eyes widened at his angry look, and she immediately closed her mouth.

"You don't say a goddamn word." He barked. "Get used being treated like a dumb slut, Weiss." The advice was like stepping into cold bath water. "You're not a special little beauty anymore, you're a picture of a better time." Sinclair stood up, moving away from his desk.

He came to stop behind Vera, indicating that she was no longer welcome. She got the message, standing as well and squaring her shoulders. She walked with new-found purpose towards the door, but stopped when she felt the sleazy man grab her wrist.

"I'd toss any other broad out the door if she jacked up as badly as you did." He told her. Vera didn't know what to say in return. "So I would watch your step, little girl." The grip on her wrist tightened until it was almost painful. "I could replace you in less than a second, Vera. Don't make me." The second he let go of her, Vera was out the door.

She didn't move towards her dressing room. She just made a beeline for the front door, pulling her arms through the holes in her jacket. Outside, it was black as could be. No stars were out, and even the moon was hidden behind a thick overcast.

Vera tugged her jacket closed, walking as fast as she could. Where she was going, however, she didn't really know.

* * *

**A/N: I've decided to put these things at the bottom now... anyway, this chapter did kind of get away from me. Sorry if it's outstandingly long compared to what the usual is. **

**Don't worry, Claude will finally appear next chapter, I just didn't want to write a story that went "BOOM instant demon!"**

**Considering how I only have one reviewer, Just obsessed, this story is for you since I think you're the only one reading it... Oh well!**


	4. Chapter Three: The Snip

_**Chapter Three: The Snip**_

Vera never noticed before, but pumps on dirty concrete sounded like scissors. The clicked, they clacked, and they hurt like hell if you weren't careful. Nevertheless, she moved quickly down the street. Being caught out at night by a crazy hobo with a knife was not a situation she would like to find herself in, but she found herself straying away from the board house.

Her left arm hurt where Sinclair dug his nails. He didn't break the skin, but she suspected that he had finally succeeded in breaking her. Anybody who lay a hand on her nearly three years ago would not have had hands for much longer, but she just took it like it was nothing.

It _wasn't _nothing.

Vera Weiss was seething, her blood boiling beneath her taught skin. She wanted to turn on her heel, walk back into the Fletcher and slap the bastard across the face. That would feel good, but getting kicked out on her ass and slowly starving really would not. Instead, she counted her steps forward like she were dancing.

_One, two, three. _The voice in her head whispered. _Just like that. Calm down, Vera._ She never knew that her own thoughts could be so soothing, but they were. She supposed her own brain did know best, but often wasn't very kind.

The cool night air touched her slightly reddened cheeks. Vera could hardly believe that she was still so flush with embarrassment. Nobody had ever touched her like that. What had changed?

Yes, she lost a few things only a little while ago, but she remembered retaining her pride. When did that slip away? When did she start allowing people to call her the Back-Alley Queen?

Truthfully, Vera didn't know. The world was a harsh place, and her only method of survival was her docile nature. Hopefully, if she submitted to the problem, it would leave her alone. But it didn't. It never left anybody alone. Reality went around slitting people's throats at night, punching their dreams and shattering them like cracks in a mirror.

There was only one person that reality left alone, and it made her sick to think of him. The only one untouched was her agent, Doyle Barlow. It made Vera ill to even remember he existed, but the dark seemed to seep into her head as well as chill her bones.

He was the perfect man, he knew what he was doing and was one hell of a dancer. Vera wasn't sure why the crash of '29 wasn't enough to send him into bankrupcy. It was about two months before she knew why.

She could've growled at the memory, and instead chose to push it away. Thinking about her humiliation would get her nowhere, but it seemed as though she was getting nowhere anyway.

Her feet led her down another side-street, and she didn't really feel like stopping herself. Going back to the board house sober was not a thing she enjoyed. Usually, she ended up just lounging around in her room, waiting for something interesting to happen.

While this random need to just walk was definitely threatening and strange to her, Vera had to admit it was something new.

Her feet led her to a river, over which was a bridge she had never seen before. Vera had never ventured this far out of the urban jungle that was New York. She felt strange, walking over the water. She felt special.

Only in her dreams did she get to see how Central Park looked, but before too long, She stopped at the gates. Something whispered to her behind them, and before she knew what she was doing, her hand stuck out and opened them.

The creaking sound cut through the still night and Vera winced. Slipping around the iron bars, she ventured further into the almost untamed patch of wilderness surrounded by black smoke and old buildings.

Vera knew that Hoovervilles existed. She read about the hobo nuisance in the paper, but did not suspect just how large the almost-town was. It stretched about an acre, with small clusters of shacks dotted here and there.

People poorer than herself milled about. Some were knitting, others were just staring at the sky. It seemed pathetic, but mostly sullen to Vera. The people of New York were too poor to afford wishing on stars.

Nobody acknowledged her as she passed through the ramshackle crowd. A path ran deeper into the woods, the old lanterns unlit. A small seed of doubt wormed its way into Vera's mind. There was always another option, always a chance to turn back.

Vera didn't take it.

Instead, she let herself go a bit. The pins in her hair had long since fallen out, her hair looked like a rat's nest after a visit from an exterminator. It felt right for once. Vera felt free.

The trees loomed over her head in such a way that they could have ben mistaken for the spider's web in her room. The web that was, sadly, now vacant. Deeper and deeper into the forest Vera ventured, drawn in by something other than morbid curiosity.

The dancer found herself to be drawn in by boredom. She realized this as she turned off of the path, stepping over fallen logs and smooth stones. Cobblestone roads were dull, Vera wanted to be alone with the dark.

For dark it was. The trees covered the sky, blocking out any light there could have been. The Hooverville that Vera left behind was nothing more than a shadow. Still, it was not enough.

Finally, after what felt like an hour of mindless walking, Vera's head cleared. It was like a spell was lifted and she looked around her, as if startled and confused by her whereabouts. She tugged her jacket tighter around her torso, trying to fight off the chill that had settled in.

She didn't know how she was ever going to find her way out of the maze of fallen trees and dirt. Vera hadn't thought about it before she went on her little misadventure.

_You're such a child, Vera!_ Her thoughts shouted at her like a controlling, disappointed parent. _Never once could you think something through before acting on it. You're greedy, you're selfish!_ The dancer couldn't find it in her to argue.

Instead, she sat down on a stump, not caring if it got her dress dirty.

_All you want is adventure, for someone else to take the wheel of the crashing car your driving! Because you're lazy! _Vera didn't move, she barely had it in her to breathe.

Her chest felt like it was going to explode against the fast beating of her heart. What short, shallow breaths Vera did inhale did nothing to dispel the cloud that seemed to want to settle again over her mind and cover her eyes.

_You want to be like a child, Vera, and you're pretty damn close. _

"Like a child?" She asked. It was as if her heart stopped completely. Vera stood up from the stump, moving towards the clear patch of dirt. "Like a child."

She thought of the little boy who put all his trust in his older sister. She thought about fairies and money and so many other things that she thought her brain might run out of space. Vera thought about falling and laughing, about hands tugging at her wrists and pulling her closer until her chest touched his.

The strange thoughts and feelings running amok inside her earlier that evening during the dance seemed to just be the tip of the iceberg. Just barely the beginning. There was so much else buried deep in her head, each colder and more unforgiving than the last.

Vera had struck an iceberg, and she was going to sink.

With a gasp, she looked up at the trees, but gone were the leaves. Instead, a web of branches filled the sky, blocking out anything. She thought of what the little boy had said. Vera racked her memory, shook it to the core until she found it.

"Hoheo Taralna, Rondero Tarel." The words passed over her lips naturally, like a breath. The chatter than pervaded the air stopped. Everything, even time, stood still.

Vera stopped as well, but only for a moment. Then, she turned around, looking for anything, but especially for a fairy. But she found nothing. The trees above her head were trapping her, keeping her from moving from the clear patch of dirt, but nothing was holding her there.

At least, she thought there was nothing there. Just as quickly as the world stopped, it started again, and the forest fell away.

It was like being woken from a hazy dream by a splash of cold water. The trees around her morphed, twisting themselves into strange shapes, grabbing hold of her arms and legs. A mounting feeling of terror blossomed in Vera's chest, but she did not struggle.

All was quiet for a few moments, before she felt something moving behind her. She turned her head, staring into the darkness, looking for a shape. A scream ripped from her lungs when she found it.

A black mass stuck out from the midnight backdrop, and it took on the form of a spider. It looked just like one Vera had killed that morning. She opened her mouth to scream again, but couldn't make a sound.

_It's going to be brave for me now._ She thought as it came closer. Vera struggled against the web, finally gaining control over her limbs. The dancer didn't want to die, as nice as it would probably be. Halfway through her attempted escape, she realized it was futile. Her arms were stuck in place, there was no getting out.

"Don't be afraid." The spidery haze finally spoke. Funny, it didn't sound like Vera thought it would that morning. "I won't hurt you."

There was no doubt in Vera's mind that if the thing tried to kill her, it would hurt very much. She never asked the spider if it wanted to live. It would only be fair if the creature denied her a choice in turn.

"What is your wish?" Vera opened her eyes, she hadn't even realized that she'd closed them. If dying was what she wanted, but couldn't do herself, why was she so afraid?

"My wish?" She was barely able to form words that came out clearly. Her question came out as a strangled whisper.

"Yes. What is it you want?" The creature asked. Vera thought a moment before nodding.

"O-of course, my wish." Was her reply. "I want my life back. I want my name up in lights and money to burn." Her teeth clenched. "I want the people who made me feel small to bleed."

"Is that all?" The spider questioned. Vera shook her head.

"No." She turned her head to look at the creature. "I want Doyle Barlow's head on a platter." If the spider could nod, it would have as it scurried across the web, above her head.

"Do you wish to make a contract?" It asked and Vera narrowed her eyes.

"What do you get in return?" If this was real, and she sincerely doubted it was, what could a fairy want from her?

"Your soul." Oh, she supposed it would want that.

"I don't think that you're a fairy." The spider made a noise of either great annoyance or mild amusement, Vera couldn't tell.

"I am not." It replied. Vera felt a sinking feeling in her stomach. "In fact I am quite the opposite. I am a demon." The dancer's breath hitched.

"Will you still grant my wish?" She asked it.

"Of course." It replied in less than a second. Vera nodded. The dancer didn't know what she was doing, truthfully, but the chance to see her agent dead at her feet filled her with a sick sense of hope.

"Alright then." She began. "I accept. I will make a contract with you." The spider made a clicking noise near her ear.

"You are not a child, but I feel I must warn you. Should you bind yourself to me, you will only know hell as your final resting place." Vera nodded yet again, before she could stop herself.

_You want this_. She told herself, and she was right. _Everything he ever did to you won't matter anymore. _Vera couldn't argue with that. The dancer wanted a man dead, and was willing to sell her soul for it.

"It's where I was going anyway." She croaked, managing to send a weak smile towards the hideous creature.

"Then, it is settled." The spider said, moving closer to her. She twisted again out of habit.

"What are you doing?" Vera asked, trying to ignore the clicking of pincers in her ears.

"Our contract has not yet been sealed. Hold still, this will hurt." Vera braced herself, going stiff as the haze moved her hair out of the way. Another high scream penetrated the thick stillness as the spider sank its teeth into the back of her neck.

Fiery pain gushed from what felt like a deep wound, but no blood dripped down her back. It did not stop the burning feeling as Vera felt a circle being drawn on her flesh. A criss cross pattern settled over the top.

_Like a flower._ She thought, her eyes suddenly going heavy.

A final, lasting burst of searing pain and heat erupted up her spine, jolting Vera awake. Her back arched in agony as the demon spider finished what she began.

_More like a pentagram._ Vera corrected herself when the seal had finally set. She felt the webs slip away from her wrists, dropping her to her knees. She hadn't known she was only a few inches above the forest floor.

The dancer felt more exhausted than she had in some time, and felt the urge to fall asleep right there in the soft earth. Her vision blurred, but she could still see something that looked decidedly human emerging from the trees.

She didn't know what form demons took usually, but was glad that it had chosen what it had instead of the spider. Vera didn't want to think about it now, she just wanted to sleep. Before she could shut her eyes, however, she heard the sound of crunching leaves, and sensed someone standing near to her.

"What is your first order, mistress?" A voice that sounded like the hazy mass from before asked. Vera moved her arm, trying to sit up, to do anything but make a fool out of herself. Her eyes aligned with the scratch marks and fingerprint bruises that laced up her forearm. Her stomach dropped.

"I order you to cut off Frederick Sinclair's left hand."

* * *

**A/N: Hello people! I just read over this chapter, and the last couple of ones as well. I think I realized how bloody weird this whole fic is turning out to be, but I love it, and will see it out 'till the end. **

**Hope you guys like this, thus far, I am! Have a good day!  
**


	5. Chapter Four: Even Breathing

_**Chapter Four: Even Breathing  
**_

"Do you have a name?" Vera asked. So far, there had been nothing but silence between the dancer and the demon.

_Once she had righted herself, she sat up, knees digging into the soft earth. She lifted her head and brushed the hair away from the back of her neck, feeling for the new mark. Vera hissed as her fingers brushed over it, sending a softer, slower wave of pain down her back. _

"That is your choice, mistress." Vera resisted the urge to turn around and look at the peculiar man who stepped out of the forest.

_She soon forgot her pain when her eyes fell upon a pair of polished black shoes. Vera didn't know what to think as her gaze traveled further upwards, taking in the sight of incredibly long legs covered by a pair of equally dark trousers. The dancer hadn't seen such formal dress in a long time, and found herself to see that the man was also wearing a tailcoat. _

"Are you a dog?" She didn't know why her voice sounded like a hammer hitting a nail, but her words came out harsher than she intended.

_His hair was quite strange, Vera noted. Never in her life had she seen such a mess. The dancer had grown accustomed to neatly gelled and parted sections that so often frequented the cinema screens. While she found it odd, she couldn't say she didn't like it. _

"No." He replied. The man sounded cold, his denial heavy with pride. Vera felt herself frowning.

"Then I don't have to name you. I would hope that you could choose one for yourself." Vera sighed and turned a bit, slowing down enough so that the man could walk next to her. She did not feel comfortable with the thought of being shadowed.

"If that is what you want, you may call me Claude." The dancer nodded, looking him up and down once more.

_An odd name to match his odd attire. _She told herself. But she did have to admit the name suited him well.

"Walk with me, Claude." She said, returning to her normal pace. He followed, matching her stride with ease. "Do you know the way back to the path?" Vera asked and Claude nodded. "You will lead me to it." The following minutes passed again in silence.

_For a spider, he is rather handsome._ Vera wished that her mind would stop making observations, but it was all so very surreal. Had she really just sold her soul in exchange for revenge. The thought nearly made her ill. The woman was nearly twenty-nine years old and she still made decisions like a spoiled girl.

"When we get back to the board house, I'll find some where for you to sleep. After that-" The demon walking beside her cut her off.

"That is not necessary." He told her. Vera lifted an eyebrow.

"Demons don't sleep?" She asked and he shook his head. "Do they eat?" She asked her second question tentatively, as if dreading a positive answer.

"Physically, human food does our kind no harm. However, it does not sustain us, only souls can." Vera nearly let out a breath of relief. "Mistress?" Claude asked, apparently he noticed her reaction.

"It's just that I can barely afford food as it is." She explained, looking at the ground. "Hardly anybody can afford anything these days." Vera crossed her arms over her chest as the wind picked up, blowing her hair out of her face.

"I see." Was all he said.

"Anyway, as I was saying, tomorrow you will go with me to the club. I'll show you Sinclair, and you can carry out my first order." The thought of demanding something from another creature who looked as human as she did was thrillingly reminiscent of the richer times.

"Of course, mistress." He watched him out of the corner of her eye, scanning his rather pale face. She felt a slight ache coming to her forehead, but what caused it, she did not know.

"You know, every time you call me mistress, a bit of me dies." She told him. "You've told me you're name, and now I think I can tell you mine. It's Vera Weiss." The pounding in her head increased slightly.

"For a butler to call his employer by something as common as their-" Now it was Vera's turn to cut him off. Her sharp, rather foreign laugh echoed throughout the forest.

"A butler? Goodness, what have I gotten myself into." She watched as Claude raised an eyebrow. "I don't need a butler." She admitted. "In fact, I wasn't going to say anything, simply because I thought you looked so dapper, but if you would rather have a soul that's less impoverished, I can point you to the Rockefeller Center." Vera paused, a smirk coming to her lips. "But then again, it hasn't finished construction yet."

"I believe that your soul will be satisfactory, at the very least." Claude replied. If one were to look closely, they might have seen Vera wilt a bit. Having a value placed on her soul like it were meat at the market was a rude awakening.

"Still, I feel like I'd be wasting your talents." Vera sighed, picking up the pace. The lights of the Central Park Hooverville were coming back into view. In no time, they would be back on the main road.

"First and foremost, I am a butler." Claude said after a pause, "But I am also gifted at adaption. Tell me, Vera Weiss, what _do _you require?" She thought a moment, wondering how exactly she _could_ hide her new demon in plain sight.

A wave of dread washed over her as she realized just how much the neighborhood would talk if a strange man began spending the night in her bedroom.

_They'd think I'm up to something._ She told herself. _My personal life is my own, but one or two people could make trouble for me._ A loose woman was not exactly what Sinclair wanted. Apparently they were a liability. _Then again, I don't think that we'll have to worry about him for much longer._ Vera looked over her shoulder a bit, a grin spreading over her face as she realized that she was right.

It took a moment before Vera noticed that she was actually _smiling_. She couldn't remember the last time she had done that. Her life was a downward spiral of alcohol and work. It crushed her to a fine powder and left little room for joy. Now, all the woman could think about was how she had the means to make the pig of a manager bleed like one.

Vera hadn't noticed how good it felt to smile. Perhaps she was a monster for finding joy in hurting others, but she didn't care in the least. She was right, this deal _was_ what she wanted. Worries and doubts festered in the back of her mind, however, chattering away about what the demon had said.

_You will never know heaven_. She thought. Inwardly, Vera scoffed. Death seemed like such a far-away pleasure. Something to look forward to, perhaps, and yet not good enough to be impatient. Perhaps, if she had thought about it in more detail before deciding, Vera could have said no to the demon, and left with her soul intact.

But that is not what happened, and a stinging feeling in the back of her neck reminded her of that. Vera found these new thoughts were souring her previous happiness, and so she pushed them away. She enjoyed being happy again, more so then she thought she would. It was easy to be miserable, to drown herself in whiskey and pray for a better tomorrow.

Still, Vera liked smiling, and was grateful to Claude for giving her a reason to do so.

"I don't think I'd object to having a demon for an agent." She said, her grin widening. "Nobody would say a word about your presence at the club, or at the board house for that matter." The dancer congratulated herself for her random spark of brilliance. It was the perfect plan.

"If that is what you need, then I will do my best to deliver." Claude replied in a rather bland tone as Vera stepped over the last log and onto the cobblestone street.

"Wonderful, I admire the enthusiasm." A smirk replaced her delighted smile as she saw the demon's yellow eyes flash with what she could only describe as anger. It didn't scare Vera as much as it should have.

They walked in silence for what remained of the trip through Hooverville. Vera felt the familiar flush of embarrassment tinge her cheeks as the watched an array of emotions pass through Claude's eyes. The most prevalent of which was disgust.

"Get used to it." Vera told him, attempting to keep her voice down. "The entire city is a train wreck, with the hobos' and the working class still trapped in the cars. But not a soul thinks we're good enough to rescue." The demon never replied, in fact he didn't even speak again until he and Vera were back on her street.

"Why his left hand?" The demon butler asked. Vera furrowed her eyebrows.

"Excuse me?" She asked, temporarily oblivious to his seemingly random question.

"You're first order if to cut off a man's left hand. What is the significance?" Vera nodded, lifting her forearm for him to see.

"It's the hand he grabbed me with. I want it removed to that he can't do it again." Claude nodded, and fell silent again. Vera shrugged a bit. The demon didn't talk very much, it seemed. Honestly, she preferred something a bit more lively, but had to wonder if the spider of a man walking beside her was even living.

* * *

**A/N: I opted for a shorter chapter for this one. Like _really _short. Sorry 'bout that...  
**

**Getting crowded with lots of stuff isn't much fun, but I promised that the chapter length will return to normal next time. Again, sorry. **

**Anyway, thanks for reading this microscopic chapter. I hope you enjoyed it. Also, if you want to, you could leave a review. Unless you really think this is crap, in which case, you don't really have to do anything!**


	6. Chapter Five: Chatter

_**Chapter Five: Chatter**_

No one heard Vera walk up the old steps of the board house and slip quietly into her room. Usually, there was a large crowd just loitering in the foyer, but the evening the dancer brought home a demon, all was quiet.

"It's not exactly The Plaza hotel, but it's what I've called home for around two years." Vera explained as she unlocked her door, stepping over the threshold. Her cheeks turned a light pink with embarrassment as she noticed her unmade bed and generally untidy dresser.

The demon didn't say anything, he merely looked around. To Vera, it seemed as though he was looking just beyond the confines of the small room, as if he were looking right through the walls and spying on the other tenants. The thought was unnerving to her.

Vera understood early on that privacy was a privilege, but still enjoyed hers nonetheless. Hardly anybody knew the odd, often drunk woman who lived on the second floor. Barely anybody had ever set foot in her box-room for the past two years.

The dancer didn't really understand what was so nerve-wracking about Claude. There was something oddly omnipotent about the man, and while she did think he was quite handsome, there was something about him she did not trust.

She sighed, doing her best to stifle the yawn that bubbled up in her throat. Vera felt a foreign ache in her shoulders as she shrugged off her jacket, folding it over her pale arm before placing it over the back of her vanity stool.

A few short steps to the right and she was at the side of her bed, tugging the covers over the pillows in an effort to hide it. The dancer wondered briefly why she was trying as hard as she was to impress the strange spider demon. Vanity was no longer a trait she possessed, or at least, she thought so.

Her realization that she was acting irrationally did not stop her from smoothing out the covers when she finished being making her bed, however. Nor did it stop her from rushing over to the vanity soon after, gathering up her tubes of lipstick and eyeliner.

"You can sit down, if you'd like." Vera said, gesturing to her now made bed. She felt foolish, as if she were trying to cover up her dirty living conditions the way she covered up her grimy nails with a fresh coat of red paint. But her room would need much more than paint.

The painted walls were a dull white, large patches of which had faded from the sun. Imbedded here and there were bent nails, implying that this old building was once a regular house, with pictures hung in every room.

Vera wondered where the old woman put all of her photographs, and what they were of. Did she have a family that she tucked away in some remote corner of her attic? Did she have a husband who died in the Great War? Children?

The dancer shook her head. Now was not the time for her to get distracted. Every so often, Vera found herself wondering about other people's lives, what they did, and just how much the world had changed for them. She didn't have a clue what good it would do her to actually know the answer, she just liked asking.

"Thank you, Vera." Claude replied. Behind her, she heard the creaking of metal bars as he sat down. She could still feel his gaze on her back, however.

"What will you do at night then?" She asked before she could stop herself. "I mean, you don't sleep." Vera watched for his reaction in the mirror. It seemed as though he knew she was doing so as well, because his face stayed blank.

"Your wish is for someone to die, correct?" He asked and Vera nodded, attempting to look busy. "Do you know where this person is?" The dancer never thought about just _how_ she would find the snake.

He'd disappeared without a trace shortly after she discovered what he had done. Just vanished like smoke across the border. She knew that the man had friends in high places, but never even imagined they were _that _high.

"I don't." Her voice sounded clipped, as though she were cross with him for reminding her of her own helplessness. In a way, she truly was. Vera was content to dream up little plots and schemes about how she would track down the gutter rat and rip out his organs. But now, with Claude sitting behind her, watching her every move, she had to recall just how insignificant she was on the grand scale.

"Then I believe I have found a productive way to pass the time." He replied. Vera found that there were no more things she could move about on her dresser without looking incompetent, and instead turned to face Claude.

"Excellent. I can help you with the details." She said. Secretly, all the dancer wanted was to sleep. Very rarely did she ever get this tired when sober. Her body became used to the numb sensation that overcame her when she lost count sitting in front of the bar. It had become her only cure to her restlessness.

Vera often lay awake for hours, just listening to conversations behind the thin walls. Some of them were held by temporary immigrants with one foot already out the door. Others were just two friends having a chat. Either way, it was annoying and yet quite peaceful to listen to.

Knowing that others worried about the future as much as she did felt safer than the lock on her door. Realizing that she was not alone in her crippling sadness did not cure her of it, but perhaps lessened the burden. To be depressed alone was complete isolation.

"Perhaps tomorrow would be a more appropriate time." Vera felt as though he should have said it like a question, but no, Claude's tone was just shy of a demand. Granted, it was one she was very eager to fulfill.

"Capitol idea." She replied, weakly flourishing her arm before walking across the room to the bed. She stepped out of her shoes, placing them by the side of the bed. Her hands went to her hips as she realized that she had left her other, much more comfortable dress at the Fletcher.

Claude stood as she neared the bed. Out of the corner of her eye, she could have sworn she saw him tilt his head slightly. She recalled how servants did that quite often to her before. It spread a warm feeling through her rather cold body. The dancer had almost forgotten what being important felt like.

"Do you want me to leave while you prepare for bed?" She looked over her shoulder, hollow green eyes meeting his almost bored-looking golden ones. Vera nodded, folding the covers back and taking a deep breath.

The moment she heard the door close behind Claude, she reached around to her back, fumbling with the laces slightly as she continued to hold her breath. Finally, she was able to get a firm hold on the piece of sting, and she tugged on it.

As if by magic, the stage dress loosened immediately and fell to the ground. Vera picked up the dress and laid it gently over the dresser. Her underwear was not something that sh enjoyed sleeping in, but it was better than the unsightly red rash she would have the next morning if she slept in that mess of frills.

The window next to her bed was tightly shut, held in place by a bar that could be lowered or raised. Vera rarely ever opened her window when sober anymore. She didn't want to see the horrible things outside. The night before, it had been wide open, but the stinging cold outside came as a slap to the face later in the day. The dancer made note to thank the landlady for closing it. She knew it was bitter outside, but in that moment, as she stood in her room wearing something she promised herself she never would, she became a bit curious as to what she would see if she opened it.

She grabbed her jacket from the chair, putting it on and buttoning it up. The chill that pressed against the walls seemed to seep through them like holes in a fish net, making her flesh erupt in goosebumps. Suppressing a shiver, she raised the bar that covered her window and pulled away the wooden piece that blocked out everything.

Vera put a hand to the cold glass, as if she expected it to go right through. Outside was exactly what she expected; a dirty mess of rooftops and boards. Not a special thing to be found. Tall buildings sprouted up from the asphalt road like trees, blocking her view of the sky. Vera wondered if she even wanted to see it.

After closing the window and settling down in bed, Vera spoke.

"You can come back in now." Her voice was just shy of a whisper, and for a moment, she doubted that Claude had even heard her. After a few moments, however, the door opened and the demon let himself in.

Vera wondered just how much demons _were_ capable of. Obviously Claude had formidable hearing, but what else? The redhead sighed, telling herself that she would ask him tomorrow. It was unusual that she still remained as exhausted as she was, but did not want to fight it.

"If you want to," Vera began. "You can stay here tonight. You don't have to go out." Claude inclined his head again, as if he were speaking to a Lady as opposed to a tired dancer.

"As you wish." He said. Vera wanted to tell him to go exploring if he felt bored, but was unable to before the hours of exhaustion that pressed heavily on her shoulders finally pushed her into unconsciousness.

"Goodnight, Claude." The dancer managed to mumble before closing her eyes. She vaguely heard the sound of the demon sitting down on the stool in front of her vanity.

"Goodnight, Vera Weiss." Was the last thing she heard before falling asleep.

* * *

For the first time in a very long while, the twelve o'clock sun did not wake Vera from her sleep. Instead, she heard someone talking.

"Miss Weiss is in perfect health, I assure you." She struggled to open her eyes, suddenly missing the sharp pain of a hangover. While she cursed alcohol's after-effects, Vera couldn't deny that they were also very effective at rousing her quickly. Instead, that morning, Vera was sluggish. She couldn't remember the last time she had slept so well.

Usually, the dancer found herself awake at all hours of the morning, only to be interrupted by short bursts of unconsciousness that left her alert but numb the next morning. Vera felt as though she were a car running on the last drop of gas in its engine. Yes, she was moving forward uphill, but any moment she would run out and be sent screeching back down to where she had been.

"I haven't seen her like that in goodness-knows how long." Vera knew that voice as well, it was the landlady.

"What do you mean?" Claude asked, not sounding any more interested than she did before.

"All the time's I've seen her, she's a right mess." Vera wanted to sit up and defend her erratic sleeping patterns, but still found herself too tired to move properly. She decided she liked that feeling, and wanted to enjoy it. "There are days she yells and goes off her head! I swear, I don't know how anybody sleeps around here with all the noise!"

Vera froze. She didn't know that she made noise when she slept. The dancer had been screaming so loudly on the inside for so long, that she'd forgotten what it sounded like when she did for all to hear. _  
_

"I will speak to her about it. For now, thank you for the water." Vera heard the sound of her door closing as the landlady left. Shortly after, the sound of her wash basin hitting the dresser rung in her ears. Despite wanting to sleep for another hour or so, the woman felt almost ill knowing that it was most likely around noon already.

She forced herself to sit up, perhaps a bit more slowly than normal. Her eyes scanned her room before finally landing on Claude, who stood up from her vanity stool.

"Good morning, Vera Weiss." He said and she nodded, throwing her pale legs over the side of the bed before standing up. She held her arms out for balance as she stood as well, finding her balance rather off.

_Is this what it feels like to wake up?_ She asked herself. _It's been a very long time. While I can say I enjoy it, I honestly didn't miss it. _Vera shook her head, tossing her mess of curls about until they settled at her shoulders. Her jacket was still tightly tied around her waist, preserving her rather tainted modesty as she stepped into her high heels.

"I will wait outside, unless you need assistance?" She heard Claude ask behind her as she moved towards her dresser. Vera shook her head as she picked up the pink monstrosity. Stage laces were challenging to re-tie, but she had managed before.

"No, that's alright. I'll call you back in when I'm finished." Behind her the door shut and the dancer got to work on rearranging her dress. When everything was in place and the laces criss-crossed tightly at her back, she sat down in front of her mirror and she called for the demon to come back in.

"The woman in the kitchen told me to bring this to you." He said when he shut the door for the third time that morning. In his hand was perhaps the most welcome sight that Vera had ever seen.

"Oh, she is a _saint_." Vera exclaimed, turning around and standing. The dancer nearly sprinted across the room to where he stood with a cup of coffee in his hands. She grabbed it, careful not to spill a drop of the nearly black and steaming liquid. Taking great care not to burn herself, Vera took a few sips.

She would never grow tired of the feeling of rising from the grave when she drank her morning cup of joe. If whiskey is what put Vera in the grave at night, black coffee is what rose her from it the morning after. The cycle was painful and nearly rot the dancer to the core, but she didn't pray for another way. She drank it down and lived for it.

"This," She said, gesturing to the tin mug, "Is what keeps me sane." Claude arched an eyebrow as though he didn't understand, and honestly, Vera didn't either.

"Is that so?" He asked. "Because it seems vile." Vera rolled her eyes and went back to her dresser, setting her cup down by the wash basin.

"Of course it is. Everything is." Vera stopped to take another sip for emphasis. "What time is it, Claude?" She asked, picking up her eye pencil.

"Just after nine, Miss Weiss." He replied and the dancer nearly dropped her makeup stick.

"Are you _mad_?" She asked, whipping around to face him. Claude remained as still as he had for the past day that she had known him. "I haven't gotten up that early since," Vera paused, "Since I don't know when." She admitted. No wonder she still ached to fall back into bed and forget about the world.

"Sleep is just as addictive as any alcohol." Claude replied. Vera shrugged, trying to pass off her sudden outburst as justified.

"That could very well be, but I like my sleep." She told him, mildly surprised when the man shook his head.

"Perhaps you like to feel numb." He said. For the second time that morning, Vera froze.

"And what if I do?" Her voice sounded as bitter as the still-hot coffee on her dresser. "You're supposed to be a butler, right. I thought they didn't ask questions." Vera turned back to her mirror, bringing her eyeliner to her eye lid. In a single stroke that had come to be second nature to her, she had finished her eye makeup.

"You said last night that you did not need a butler." Claude reminded her. In an unpredictable flash of annoyance and general humiliation, Vera turned her head.

"Yes, but I should have told you that I also didn't need a friend." She looked back to her mirror, parting her lips and brushing the red lipstick over them.

"My apologies, Miss Weiss." Vera could tell that he really wasn't, and neither was she.

"Don't lie to me." She said, her voice low. As badly as she wanted to turn and see his face, Vera kept her eyes on her lap.

"Pardon?" Claude asked in the same, bored tone that nearly infected everything he said.

"Never, ever lie to me." Vera repeated. Instead of bitter, her voice now sounded like crunching gravel.

"Is that an order?" The demon questioned and Vera shook her head. She had almost forgotten she could do that.

"No. It is a request. I can't stop you from lying to me, I am simply asking you not to." Finally, the dancer allowed herself to look at him. Nothing interesting was written on his face, and she doubted that there ever would be.

"You have my word." He replied. Vera nodded, forcing a grin on her lips.

"Lovely," She began. "Shall we go kill someone?"

* * *

**A/N: What even is this chapter? I go from the second-shortest one to the absolute longest! I guess I'm loony that way! **

**Anyway, a very big thank you to my new reviewers. I really am so glad you guys are liking this! **

**As a warning, I'm hoping next chapter that things get a little gory, so if you don't like that stuff, just tell me in advance is a review so I can decide whether or not to put it off screen... or off page... I don't know!**

**Have a lovely day, I'll see you next update!**


	7. Chapter Six: Less Than

_**Chapter Six: Less Than**_

There were many things that one could hide beneath the floorboards. Vera never enjoyed reading, but recalled a horror story about a man who hid a dead body under the very chair where a policemen investigating the crime sat. If you were to look under the woman's floorboards, however, her secrets would be quite different.

It began with a briefcase, which the dancer pulled out from under a particularly loose plank of wood. Claude stood beside her as she knelt, her dress pooling around her as she tugged it up into the light of day.

Th old thing looked to be from the early '20's, made of solid brown leather and held together by patches of cloth. Vera smiled and brushed her hand affectionately along the top, scattering any dust that lay on top to the floor.

"The poor girls' strong box." She explained to her stoic demon. He didn't say a word in reply, he just peered at the old suitcase over the brim of his spectacles. Vera thought that they suited him rather well, her mind even went as far to say that he looked like a stern school teacher.

Vera stood up after a moment of staring at her ugly little mess of patchwork leather and turned to her dresser. She knew what she was looking for as she reached one hand under the flat of the table, sliding her hand along until she pulled back, holding a key in the palm of her hand.

"Nobody knows that is there." Vera told Claude, who tilted his head to the side.

"Then why bother with a key?" He asked, but the dancer did not reply, instead, she merely sank back down to her knees and picking up the rusty-looking lock that hung from the handles. With a swift movement, Vera put the key in the lock and turned it, tugging it open and setting it beside her.

She took a deep breath before undoing the clasps in the sides and lifting the lid. Inside was everything she cared about. The papers stacked here and there were in unorganized piles here and there, tied with fading red string. The brocade lining was ripped here and there, with dollar bills sticking out. A thick necklace of pearls was entwined over the largest item in Vera's memory box; a men's jacket.

"Here." She said, moving the papers away and pulling it out for him. "A present for each of us." She set the jacket on the bed and pulled out the necklace. "Can you believe that I got this in Indiana for five cents?" She asked, stringing it around her neck. "Is it still visible?" Vera turned around, gesturing to the still stinging marking on the back of her neck.

"No." Claude replied. Vera felt a bit of relief. For the moment, as long as the cheap string of pearls held, she was safe from some very difficult questions.

"Alright, now for you." Vera stood up again, picking up the jacket as well. "I saved this for a rainy day," The dancer admitted as she motioned for the demon to turn around. "And now, I think it's pouring." She let a sad smile pass over her lips as Claude shrugged out of his tailcoat.

"Thank you." Was all he said as he took the coat from her. Vera nodded, folding his extravagant tailcoat and placing it back into the briefcase.

"This is the holy grail for me come rent time." Vera said. "That's why I lock it up tighter than a corset. Not to keep anybody else out, but specifically me." Claude looked as though he were about to ask questions, but Vera shrugged him off.

Instead, she shut her little box filled with happier times and put it safely back underneath the floorboards. In a way, hiding it only made her feel worse ever time she did it, but if she stared at everything she'd been for too long, she'd never want to stop.

So Vera hid it all so that it was just out of her reach. She didn't want to spend her life wishing she'd woken up from the dream she was living before, because all it brought her was enough pain to make as bitter as overdone coffee.

"Do you want to see the neighborhood?" Vera asked and Claude simply inclined his head.

"If it is as disgusting as what I saw last night, than I will decline." The dancer shook her head.

"It's horrific, but not everywhere is a Hooverville." She explained, making her way towards her dresser again and fetching her coat. "I need to get out of this white-washed hell hole. Come with me, there's still an hour before I have to be at the Fletcher."

Vera didn't fully understand her sudden, almost desperate need to spend time with this man. In the evening that she has known him, he only gave her time of day when utterly necessary.

_You are lonely, Vera. Face it. Just a little girl who wants a friend to play with._ The woman couldn't deny that she was just as starved for human contact as she was for food. Hardly anybody at the club socialized with one another. You went to the smokey ditch, you preformed, you got paid, you went home. Such was the cycle.

It didn't mean that Vera liked it. She missed her friends that she left with her old life. She missed talking to people and making everyone laugh. But not once did Vera ever allow herself to remember that.

She didn't know when the laughter she made stopped and the horrible noises began. Vera didn't have a clue as to why everything she cared about became as twisted and revolting as her own reflection in the mirror. Vera wanted to be happy, but being happy was a crime. A weakness.

"Please, Claude." Vera offered as she turned the door handle. "It's not all bad." She didn't know why she was pestering him as she was. In all honesty, the black-haired man didn't have a choice in the least. The dancer enjoyed ordering people around, but that wasn't who she was anymore.

In truth, she hadn't fully gotten her head around the concept that she _bought_ the man standing behind her. The woman actually _owned_ him. It was like a sick dream, one that she very much wished to wake up from.

"If you insist, Miss Weiss." He finally said before following her out the door.

The main 'lobby' of the board house was just the living room where all the boarders would talk, drink joe and bum a smoke from their neighbors. The women would gossip and the men would complain about their wives back home, wherever that was.

"And just what the bloody hell are you doing up?" A loud voice exclaimed from across the room. Vera resisted the urge to wince as she heard the telltale sound of Bobby Wright. He was, perhaps, the biggest man she had ever seen in her life. Standing over six feet tall and nearly being just as wide, Vera would have almost been afraid of him if he weren't so nice.

"I got sick of you shouting!" She replied as he lumbered across the room. Out of the corner or her eye, she could have sworn she saw Claude blanch at the noise the two were making.

"Keep that attitude up, Missy, and you really will be a Back-Alley Queen." Vera flushed a light shade of pink before pushing the man out of the way, heading for the door.

"Well, why don't you write to your wife and tell her all about that smart mouth you've got!" As soon as the words were out, she regretted them, but didn't really feel like apologizing as she swept out the door, slamming it behind her and Claude.

"That was, perhaps, the oddest encounter between two human beings I have ever witnessed." The demon said as soon as they were out in the moderately fresh air. Vera forced a laugh.

"I did hit a bit below the belt though." The dancer admitted. "Bobby doesn't like people talking about his wife, or that he never writes to her anymore." Vera tugged her jacket tighter around her waist, leading Claude away from the board house.

"But it seems that you've also earned a rather intriguing nickname as well." He commented and Vera shot him a glare.

"I haven't the slightest idea what you're talking about." She bluffed, her voice dangerous.

"Of course, Miss Weiss. My apologies again." Vera just shrugged it off, setting herself on a new course down the street.

"Right, well, I think we should get going."

* * *

After an hour of aimless wandering and revolted looks from the admittedly out-of-place looking demon, Vera found herself wandering towards the Fletcher as one o'clock neared ever closer. Vera had never played the tour guide role for anybody, let alone an extremely intimidating man. She found herself a bit anxious as she neared the doors.

The building looked as though it had survived a bombing, but just barely. Missing here and there along the brickwork were chunks of wall, as if it had been blown to bits and rebuilt from memory. A sign hung above the door with name of the club in large, faded letters. The Fletcher had been there in the background during the Roaring Twenties. It had seen shows of all type from the widely popular burlesque to the cabaret shows Vera did now.

It's history almost made her a bit sad. The Fletcher was living proof that the buildings of New York were just as broke as the people. Vera knew that a pile of rubble couldn't have feelings, but it looked just about as forlorn as she did, just as threadbare. The Fletcher was cracking around the seams, just like the dancer was, but it held itself together far better.

Vera realized, with no small amount of shock, that a building that gave her a bad taste in her mouth to think of was better at fooling the public than she was.

_Of course,_ She thought to herself. _The Fletcher, as disgusting as it is, is a symbol of hope._ Vera didn't want to think about why anybody would view the sad, awful place as somewhere to cheer up, but she had to admit her thoughts were right. The Fletcher was a place where anybody could go, even the hobos. It wasn't fancy, and it didn't try to be. It was a beautiful metaphor, almost. So many people had fallen so far, and that same amount didn't have the time or the spare cash to be treated better than they were.

The Fletcher changed depending on its audience, and so did Vera.

"We have a few more hours 'till show time. I want you to see something." She said over her shoulder to Claude. As she expected, he did not reply, he merely followed like a pet on a leash. It made Vera tad uncomfortable.

The smell of day-old cigarette smoke assaulted her nose the moment she opened the creaky door. The inside of the club was still dark, with showgirls and stage hands alike running about in an effort to get ready for that evening. Tom stood behind the bar, cleaning out the glasses. Vera felt a familiar pang in her stomach, and she realized how much she would love a drink.

She thought back to the suitcase under her floorboards, and how that was as much a secret to herself as it was to everybody else. She thought about the savings she accumulated in four years, and what little money she had left over from before the crash of '29. She couldn't let herself get her hands on it, not while she was desperate. Vera could blame Doyle Barlow for a lot of things, but a good chunk of her problems were of her own making.

"This way." Her voice took on the role of leader almost effortlessly as she guided the peculiar demon through the labyrinth that was the backstage of the Fletcher. It was darker than in the front of house, and infinitely dirtier. Every so often, they would pass by mirrors caked with dust or dressing rooms that still had stars on their doors despite the fact their their owners were long gone.

It was like walking with a ghost from the past, Vera realized. The deeper she went, the sadder it became, as if the Fletcher hadn't bothered to put up appearances. For the second time that day, the dancer felt an emotional connection to a building.

"It's not much further. I haven't been out here in so long." Her hand stuck out, feeling along the wall. When her hand his a small doorknob that felt a bit different from the rest, she sighed. She didn't really want Claude to see what waited on the other side of the door. She'd rather he have thought her some promiscuous whore that let men walk all over her.

She exhaled, telling herself that it couldn't be helped as she turned the knob and opened the door.

Taking a step down, Vera walked through the door and out into an alley. She found this place a long time ago, back when she used to smoke and needed a quick relief after show time. She heard Claude step behind her.

"Here it is." She said, walking towards the wall. It was dark down here, likely because of the buildings that reached towards the sky on either side. Laundry lines hung in diagonal patterns like corset laces in windows, blocking out what little sunshine there was, and shielding them from the murky sky.

Vera didn't feel as much pain as she thought she would as she stepped over a piece of paper, one she knew all too well. It was difficult not to know your own promotional ad, but the dancer knew hers like the back of her hand.

There were thousands of them, most scattered on the ground, dirtier than a hound and just as water-logged. They carpeted the concrete, nearly blocking it out. Some were tacked on the brick walls in haphazard clumps, as though someone had tried to make it look respectable and then gave up. Vera pinched the bridge of her nose between her thumb and forefinger.

Coming out here never failed to give her a migraine and a bitter taste in her throat.

"So," she began, "What do you think?" Vera didn't wait for Claude to answer, she just let out a small laugh and went to lean on the wall. "This is how I got my nickname." She explained, throwing her arms out to the side and sliding down the wall. "Sinclair had _two hundred_ posters he was just waiting to put up when I went to play at his shitty little club."

The woman hugged her knees to her chest, watching the demon from under heavily lidded green eyes.

"That was back in '29. Nobody knew the crash would hit us all so damn hard. I was traveling back to New York from Paris. I did a couple of shows in a few clubs and I was ready to get back home. I grew up around here? Did you know that, Claude?" Now she knew that she was rambling, but she couldn't stop herself. She couldn't stop herself from having another breakdown two days in a row.

_You chose to come out here._ She told herself. _You're such an attention-seeker. You'll do anything for the spotlight._ And she was right. Vera belonged center-stage, at least she thought she did. Instead she was back-stage. _Very_ back-stage. So far back that nobody even cared to remember her while she screamed for _someone_ to notice her.

"Anyway, I got here and-" She felt the burning behind her eyes, but she couldn't cry. It would be too time-consuming to remove her makeup and re-apply it again. Vera busied herself with trying to keep her voice from cracking. "My agent, Doyle Barlow, the man I want dead, had apparently stole almost every cent I had from my bank account."

Vera looked down at her lap, feeling a hot flush come to her cheeks. She sounded just like that starry-eyes little boy, so obsessed with something as trivial as money that it even dominated her deepest wishes. She was ready to kill a man over money, and Vera wasn't in a right enough mind to care.

"I had to beg Sinclair to give me a job. I was absolutely alone in a city I didn't know anymore, and it was so frightening." Vera clawed at the wet paper underneath her hand. "I got a room at the board house and that _damn_ man threw every scrap of paper that had to do with me out here. I used to just sit, right in this very spot, smoke a cigarette and dream about what would have happened if I never came back here."

The dancer looked up at the demon, not knowing what she would see in his face. As far as she could tell before that, he looked as much of a man as Bobby. Stranger, yes of course, but still real.

But when Vera's eyes met his, she saw something familiar. Her demon might have been the picture of humanity, but as she stared at him, all she could see was the little spider that made a home in her bedroom, the one she had similarly confessed all her problems too.

And all she could see was how similarly bored he looked.

* * *

**A/N: Gah! Another lengthy chapter with nothing going on whatsoever!**

**Generally speaking, you guys seem not to like the longer chapters, but I don't want to break this one up. I almost like this chapter as much as chapter two, which is my favorite one so far. **

**But... I now have over four-hundred views, which I think is super awesome! I'm glad that people are actually reading this high-as-a-kite weirdness!**

**Last chapter was a bit off and long, I get it, but I hope you guys like this one better!**


	8. Chapter Seven: Spots

_**Chapter Seven: Spots**_

"Shall we go back inside now?" Vera asked, standing from her spot at the wall. Her dress felt wet where it hit her calves, but she didn't care. Tonight's performance would make her to squeeze into an entirely _new _dress.

_But you won't have to dance for him ever again after that._ She reminded herself. _You know who'll succeed the snake in the grass, after that, all you need to concern yourself with is finding Barlow. _

Vera adored it when her thoughts were things she wanted to hear. With the small amount of encouragement her psyche had proceeded her with, the dancer brushed past the demon and headed for the Fletcher's back door.

"Perhaps that is best." Claude replied, turning and following her just as he had before. Vera didn't bother to look as she opened the door and went back inside, she knew he would be following. And he was.

"Come then, you've seen the ruins of my past life, not to see where I have begun to rebuild." Back through the maze of hallways the dancer went. The stage hands gave odd looks, some wondering what had been said or done to excite Vera that much. Most, however, were asking themselves who the tall man in the fine suit-jacket who trailed behind her was.

He has cold eyes, anybody standing within five feet could see how they flashed behind his spectacles. Not many people paid attention to Miss Vera, but the man she had come with never seemed to take those dangerous eyes off of her. He watched her like she would be pulled away from him like any money he had left.

Anybody else would have been completely unnerved knowing that somebody was that possessive, but Vera didn't even seem to notice as she whisked by towards her dressing room. Nobody said a word about the strange man after they both disappeared into her dressing room, but everyone was thinking about him.

"Miss Weiss?" Claude asked as she pulled off her coat, draping it across the chair. She turned her head, barely making eye contact.

"Claude, why don't you call me by my first name anymore?" She replied with a question.

"I am a butler to the core, Vera," Claude answered, testing out her name again. The dancer had to admit that it did not suit him. "Forgive me. It is in my nature to be formal." Vera shrugged, sitting down before her still-cracked mirror.

"Somehow, I doubt that." She admitted. "But never mind. What did you need?" Claude cleared his throat, folding his hands behind his back.

"I merely wanted to ask why your mirror is in such a state of disrepair." He told her and she nodded.

"I like it this way. It's easier to forget how cracked my life is when it is intact. I was playing with a small splinter in the glass one day. Right about here." She lifted a red nail, brushing the left side of the mirror to show him. "And then, it shattered into a thousand pieces. I keep it as a reminder of how fragile solid things can seem."

The demon just nodded and came to stand behind her.

"Are you sure you can't see it?" She asked, gesturing to the back of her neck. Claude nodded.

"I'm quite certain, Vera." He said, bringing a gloved hand to rest at the base of her neck. She recoiled slightly, realizing that this was the first time he had touched her. "Pay the seal no mind, the pain will fade within a week."

"How did you know that it hurt?" She asked. Her mind screamed at her to tell him to get his hands off of her. But she found she could not. There had only been a few other men who touched her in her life, the most recent of which being Sinclair.

_But Claude is nothing like him._ Vera thought. _He grabbed you out of anger. There is nothing behind Claude's touch. He is empty._ The dancer sat up straight in her chair.

"Remove your hand _now._" She said, her voice like gravel. The demon did so without delay.

"As you wish, Vera. I will refrain from doing so in the future." The dancer just sighed, gesturing to the door with her hand.

"Don't apologize. Now, if you could step out of the room for a moment, I need to change." Claude complied with a signature incline of his head that Vera doubted she would ever get used to.

Vera stripped off the now-dirty pink mess as quickly as she could, exchanging it for something a bit more sleek. But, just as she suspected, the fabric was as cheap as a chicken-feed sack, and it ripped up her skin, leaving behind thin, swollen, red lines.

"Claude, could you-" Vera stopped herself, her arms frozen in place behind her back as she attempted to zip up her zipper. Outside the door, voices could be heard.

"And just who the bloody hell are you?" Vera nearly choked on her own fear. She had hoped to hide Claude away from her manager, but it seemed that sending him away was not a good choice.

"My name is Claude Faustus." She heard her demon reply in the same monotone he used in all of their conversations. "I am a business associate of Miss Vera Weiss." He explained. She heard Sinclair scoff.

"What's she paying you?" He barked. "Because, whatever it is, that little cheat doesn't have it." Vera could have spit poison at the bastard, but instead she just kept trying to tug up her zipper, imagining it was Sinclair's tie around his throat.

"I assure you that her payment is adequate and quite real." Claude still sounded as collected as ever, it almost made Vera jealous.

"She in there?" She heard him ask as her blood ran cold. Like a woman possessed she pulled on her dress until her arms hurt. She would not be caught like this.

"Miss Weiss is not available at the moment. I must ask you to wait until she is ready to see you." Vera's eyes widened and she mentally kicked herself for not informing Claude about what he could and could not say.

"Until she is ready to see me?" Sinclair asked. Vera could practically feel the anger pushing against the door "Out of the way!" A moment later, she heard his fist come down on the wood. "Vera, you open this door now!" It wasn't locked, and so all Vera did was wait.

It didn't take long before the giant man tried the knob and turned it, throwing the door open.

"What the hell are you doing?" He asked her as she turned to face him, hiding her exposed back.

"I'm changing, Sinclair. I thought I deserved that much." Her words sounded like birds wings.

"You take a goddamn eternity, Weiss!" She could tell that he was attempting to keep his voice down as he crossed the room in two steps, grabbing her shoulder and turning her around. His hand went to her lower back and she could barely hold in a scream.

The very same hand found her zipper and slid it up, covering her back and leaving her pale with rage. He gave one last pat to her lower back before turning and walking out of the room.

"Remember to tell me when you bring outsiders to the club Vera." He called over his shoulder. "I wouldn't want to think you're up to something!"

She hardly felt like nodding in reply, but did anyway as she sank back into her chair. She heard footsteps behind her and a door closing. Vera turned to see Claude standing in the doorway. She let out a breath and turned to her mirror.

"Claude?" She asked. Her back felt like it was on fire. "Come here please." She didn't have to look up from her vanity, she knew he would comply.

"What do you need?" He asked when he was back where he was before she told him to leave. Only then did she look up at him through the mirror.

"Put your hand on my back." She said, turning to pick up his hand. She placed it where she wanted it to be and closed her eyes.

_If Sinclair is fire, Claude is darkness._ She thought. _And it is so much easier to feel nothing._ And she did. Vera didn't feel the Sinclair brought her fade when Claude stood behind her, because she did not feel a thing.

Claude was empty, that much was true, and at first it revolted her. Now, as he stood a pace behind her, she would have it no other way.

After a minute, Vera stood up, checking her reflection in the mirror one last time before leaving her dressing room. She never spoke a word as she made her way backstage, she didn't know what to say. She wanted to go home, have a stiff drink and forget today, but she was needed elsewhere.

Like an old friend, the stage called to her, and she would answer. She would always answer.

"Sit right there. I'll look for you in the crowd." Vera said over her shoulder, pointing to a seat from behind the curtain. It didn't occur to her to check if Claude would still be there. Realizing her mistake, she turned around. A small smile came to her red lips when she saw him right where he always was. He nodded and turned away from her as well, heading back to the front of house.

The music began and Vera was, for once, completely in control. Her head was clear, her posture straight. She knew what came next and anticipated every move, every twist. In her head, she had the audience wrapped around her little finger, and when the song ended and the applause hit her like a wave, she pretended they clapped only for her.

Her eyes scanned the small crowd for Claude, and she found him near the back, precisely where she had pointed. The demon wasn't cheering along with everybody else, but it came as a comfort that he wasn't cat-calling either.

Vera moved quickly through the mass of dancers that huddled backstage. Most had other dances to perform later that night, but Vera was free for the rest of the night. In a way, it made her quite anxious. At least when she danced, she could take her mind off of her mounting panic.

_What if he fails? _She thought to herself, wringing her hands as she rushed towards the bar. A drink would calm her nerves, and Vera knew that she had an extra dime in her pocket for emergencies.

She changed her bee-line for the bar and instead turned towards her dressing room, throwing the door open and rushing to where her jacket lay. In the corner of the room, the old scrap of fabric that barely kept out any heat was draped over the armrest of her settee. Vera didn't remember putting it there, she distinctly recalled throwing it over her stool before the performance.

"The man who was outside," Vera gasped, turning around to see Claude standing in her doorway for the second time that evening. "I presume he is the Frederick Sinclair from your orders?" He asked and she nodded, pressing a hand to her chest.

"Yes, that's him. Did you move my-" Claude cut her off by nodding in turn. Vera gave him a smile, wordlessly thanking him as she went to sit on her dresser stool. She faced the door, laying her jacket across her lap and crossing one leg over the other.

"Vera," Claude began and the dancer looked up from playing with a loose thread. "You have been unclear in your orders." He informed her and she lifted an eyebrow.

"How so?" She asked. The demon moved further into her dressing room. She noticed how silently he closed her door, and how he kept his distance.

"You originally wanted me to remove his hand. Later, you asked for him to be killed. Which do you prefer?" Vera bit her bottom lip, her hands folding in her lap. She subconsciously tugged on one of her red-painted nails.

"I'm sorry for the confusion, Claude." She said. "Just so that you know. But, all I want is for you to cut off his hand. If he dies of blood loss, so be it." Vera finished, feeling what little remained of the weight on her shoulders lift.

Her eyes widened considerably when Claude Faustus sank to his knees, one arm folded behind his back, the other resting on his chest.

"Yes, Vera Weiss." He said. Vera smirked in reply. She was going to enjoy this.

"A butler to the core?" She asked. "Hm, I think I'm beginning to see that now." The demon stood, hands behind his back, looking as obedient as a dog. Vera was still a bit wary of him however. How he acted around her was foreign, and had been so for several years.

To be truthful, she considered herself a better person when she attempted to be informal. All it got her was a _very_ uncomfortable demon who sounded as though her first name was not meant to be spoken by him.

"Sinclair should leave in an hour. Complete my first order and I guarantee you my soul." All he did was nod in reply before whisking out of the room.

Vera peeked out of her dressing room door nearly three hours later. She saw the manager leave from the back door. That was the last time she saw Frederick Sinclair alive.

* * *

**A/N: I hate myself. Holy crap, I wanted the manager dead by now but I just keep putting it off :0(**

**Okay, so after that little tidbit of unprofessional-ness, why do I feel the need to put in so many filler chapters? I really have no clue at all, I guess that it's because Claude is so difficult and yet fun to write!**

**Next chapter, someone will be dead, so don't worry. I promise!**

**Anyway, have an awesome day you guys, and I will see you next chapter!**


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